A Non-Linear, Non-Subjective Viewpoint
by crystal-chan
Summary: Just after the Revolutionary War has ended, England is having far too much trouble putting the ghosts of all he once had to rest. He makes the foolish decision to seek closure through his magic, and travels back through time to find his answers. He quickly finds that Manifest Destiny is more than just a political excuse. And the time stream isn't too happy he's messing with it.
1. England, Distraught

Note: This is also up on AO3 under the author name CrystalRequiem if you prefer.

*maniacal laughter* you guys have no idea how excited I am about this. This is an absolute MONSTER of a story and I just can't waaaait for you to really get into it. I think I wrote this chapter in under a week? I don't usually write that much that quickly. Hope I can keep this up!

Pleeeease tell me what you think.

This chapter/story was heavily inspired by Coldplay's Warning Sign.

* * *

**1784, London, England**

"Open up!" He batted at the voice trying to get him to move, covering his eyes and trying to fall further into sleep. He didn't want to be up yet. He didn't want to face another day.

"I demand that you answer this door!" The muffled shouting refused to let him escape. It was dragging him moaning into consciousness, accompanied by a dull banging. It took his sleep-logged mind far too long to register the sound as the pounding of a fist on an oak door. At first he thought it might be the pulsing of his own headache.

"England!" Another shout, another damned thud against his front door. The sound rammed into his skull, pulling him fully out of the nothing world of sleep and into rainy, broken reality. Arthur spared the fiend at his door a weak curse and rolled over.

Well, he tried to roll over. He wound up falling off the edge of the bed, landing with a large clatter that sent the bottles of rum and whisky and whatever else he could get a hold of last night scattering about the room. He cursed at the glass, at the dim grey light streaming into his room through the rickety shutters, at his too-narrow bed. He saved the most colorful curses for the person still banging at his door. He didn't know what they thought they were doing. The idiot would like as not wake his neighbors at this rate.

" _Angleterre,_ you can not mean to hide here forever. Answer the damn door." Angleterre? No one called him such a garish name save… Oh dear God. Not _him. _

"Sod off, you frog-legged skirt-chaser, I've not the strength for your chicanery today," he grumbled as he tried to lift himself off the floor, wincing as the action made the room spin unattractively. Over the centuries, he drank long and abundantly enough to weather this kind of hangover. If not, he'd be revisiting his dinner all over his dirty, wooden floor. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, waiting for the nausea to pass.

"I find myself unable to hear you. Perhaps you should unlock this barrier and speak without its hindrance." England groaned, continuing to curse his fellow nation with every salty word he'd ever learned on the high-seas. He stumbled to his feet, not quite able to coordinate his movements so soon after waking. He felt almost as if he were still drunk, just without the blessed numbness that came with it. He missed the feeling too much—briefly pondered picking up another bottle to chase after it.

"I'm serious. If you don't unlatch this door in the next minute or so, You'll find yourself in need of a new door. It may have been a while, but I remember well enough how to break in." He knew the fool wasn't bluffing and he didn't feel like having to replace another door. The carpenters were getting suspicious enough as it was. It seemed every nation who'd ever made their way to London and a few humans besides had been determined to take out their fury on his front entrance at one point or another.

It didn't take terribly long for Arthur to stumble his way to the door handle. His ever so _polite_ guest stopped making such a racket once it became apparent his target was up and moving. The clanking of bottles and his muttered curses every time he tripped served as a notification that he'd taken the Frenchman's words to heart. He opened the door with the best glare he could muster, half-leaning in the doorway. Francis opened his mouth to say something, took a single look at Arthur and stopped. His countenance flashed from annoyance to concern in only a few seconds.

"_Tu as une sale tête."_ He blurted, seeming genuinely shocked. Arthur rolled his eyes, not sure what the idiot expected if he'd stormed in here and threatened to break down the door in any case.

"Yes, well. If you've had your fill of gloating you can take your amusement, and then, your leave." He turned his back on the man, leaving the door open and surveying the mess he'd made last night. He didn't remember drinking most of this. Perhaps some of it had been from the day before yesterday… or maybe the day before that? He sighed and bent over to pick up what he could, trying to round the rubbish into some kind of order.

"_Mon ami_, I came for no such purpose. Though, I must admit…" the blond stepped gingerly into the house, shutting the door behind him. Pity. Arthur had hoped he'd just…yell at him or something and keep this quick. "This kind of mess is nearing awe-inspiring. I must confess you've thrown my thoughts; my tongue is too bereft of them to speak." Arthur snorted, lining a few bottles along the wall for now until he could find a better place for them.

"I wasn't aware your kind of speech ever solicited prior thought," he quipped, falling easily into his annoyance for France. Francis just laughed, a misstep in the game. His eyes were too kind, too full of pity. He wasn't going to play along today, Arthur could already tell.

"Well, at least your mind is not yet as dull as your looks," the Frenchman offered, but it was too fond, too soft. Arthur bit his tongue and turned back to tidying up the place, gathering mugs and cups and laying them all in their proper places. He resolved to ignore his guest. If Francis wouldn't grant him something to rail against, he didn't know what the point of this was. "Arthur," the blond tried, stepping closer. England stubbornly continued his impromptu cleaning regimen. "Arthur," he demanded again, stilling the Brit's hands as he reached for a jug of nearly-stale water and an old rag.

"What," he spat in return.

"How long has it been since you left this place." He didn't dare meet his adversary's gaze. He was well aware he hadn't moved in far too long. He was moping and he knew it. He didn't care.

"It matters not."

"It does matter." Francis insisted, bringing a second hand up to grasp Arthur's shoulder firmly. Still, Arthur could not look at him. "Have you bothered yourself with the affairs of your own government even once in all the time since you last got off of that boat?" Arthur glared at nothing in particular, turning the question over in his frazzled mind even as he fought against it. He didn't think he had. He wondered, numbly how long it had been? He scarcely remembered the passing of winter, but it was warm now. When had that happened?

"Francis, why have you come here?" He questioned tiredly, ripping himself away from the Frenchman's grip. He was in no mood to face his problems. Not yet. Far better to bury them all in the bottle, at least for now. Just a few more days to indulge himself, a few more days to—to grieve. He twisted his hands in his tunic.

"I _came_ to lift you out of this rut you seem determined to stay mired in." Francis sounded less genuine than he looked. His ornate clothing stood in stark contrast to Arthur's rundown little townhouse. The gold embroidery looked especially garish in the cold grey light of London.

"You traveled from Paris to rehabilitate me?" Arthur mused aloud in disbelief, his face twisted in a sarcastic sneer. "For what cause? The peace of your mind? Goodwill? Forgive me if I have trouble believing such fantasies." Francis sighed, moving around the room and grimacing at its state in turns as Arthur spoke.

"At the behest of your king, if you must know," he explained coolly, dusting off one of the salon seats with a cultured sneer before making himself comfortable. Arthur was too busy trying to process his words to be annoyed by his usual affectation.

"My king contacted _you_ out of concern for my welfare?" A dark chortle escaped him, scraped its way up through his chest. The idea was just too laughable. "At _best_ we are enemies, and at worst, there is no word apt enough to describe the levels of hatred you can elicit in me. What good could you do me?" France nodded along, examining the dust that had marred his white gloves.

"And knowing that, what does it now mean that your king has chosen to rely on the pity of your enemies, rather than leave things as they are?" Arthur scoffed.

"What good has pity ever done? I've had my fill of pity—I get an abundance of it from myself," he griped, dropping into the chair opposite France and paying no mind to the dust that flew about him as he did so. He'd made no move to clean this place after the trip home, even though it had been un-lived in for years. He'd spent so much time in America these last few decades…

Arthur pulled a hand over his eyes, hoping that by depriving himself of sight he might stopper the memories. "Unless your pity can be used to purchase ale, I've no need for it."

"By the looks of things, you've plenty of needs left unmet, but certainly no want for ale." Francis kicked at a loose bottle Arthur hadn't managed to get to, and both of them tracked its progress across the floor until it stopped near a ragged carpet. "I needn't have asked if you had left this house since your return to London; the bottles lining your walls are as accurate a calendar as any." The Brit huffed in amusement, hands twisting almost painfully in the fabric of his shirt. It seemed thin—too threadbare. He was losing grip. Hadn't this shirt been new, not so long ago? Time had become strange.

"Those bottles only mark the passage of a fortnight," he admitted, leaning back sloppily in his chair. He didn't know what he was doing. If America had ever sat in his chairs like this, he'd… Ah. There it was. The reason he'd picked up his old crutch. Because he couldn't, he _couldn't_…. his mind was locked onto a single person, a single event. And he could not _stop_ thinking about it. Gunshots in the rain. The sensation of tears burning down his face.

"I understand we hold certain privileges of constitution our citizens cannot hope to share. All the same, I cannot believe drinking so heavily will do you any favors." Francis advised, seeming genuinely worried, even if he had no reason to care. England ignored him, reaching for a flask he remembered stashing somewhere between the cushions of this chair. He hadn't been sober enough to find it last night but, his fingers found it easily now.

"On the contrary, I find that there are few things in this world more amenable to a man's recovery than hard liquor, and the blessed ability to forget." He unlatched the flask top, tipped it toward his lips… and tasted nothing. Francis had already snatched his scotch away.

"Arthur, I hardly think it needs to be said, but you cannot continue on in this manner."

"I can continue however I please." He refused to admit how much like a petulant child he sounded. He'd had too much of petulant children. And _God _he just wanted to stop thinking about Alfred.

"No, you really can't. You've too many responsibilities to be cavorting about like a common gutter-snipe."

"What reason have you to care about my responsibilities. You should relish the chance to hold advantage over me." Francis looked livid. Arthur found himself wishing he could muster any emotion with that kind of enthusiasm. He could only manage to lose himself to wretched despair. Even France waxing hypocritical about the dangers of alcohol couldn't muster his ire.

"As much as I hate to admit it, you were right about my pity. You've had quite enough. You've practically bathed in your own. But as your enemy there is one more advantage I can afford you which you've no strength to administer to yourself." As he spoke, he tipped the flask to the floor, spilling it out across the floorboards and washing the room in the heavy scent of old scotch.

"The ability to waste good spirits?" Arthur remarked dryly, already going over his old hiding places and wondering if he might have left more alcohol for himself somewhere, many years ago.

"Cruelty," Francis corrected, dropping the empty flask to the floor and looming over Arthur, still seated in the dusty chair. "What are you doing, _sourcils_? Waiting for America to give up and come back to you? Letting everything else go to waste in the meantime?" Arthur said nothing, but turned away. His every breath sat sharp and heavy in the center of his chest. "Did you know you have sat here, accepting no company save the occasional market delivery, for nearly six months? It is early Autumn, England. It has been the better part of a year."

"Hmm." Arthur mused, looking emptily at his shuttered windows. He'd barely registered the passing of days, even before he'd started drinking so heavily.

"It's no wonder _Amerique _saw fit to leave you if this is how pathetic you've become." The words cut into his heart. Still, it was nothing he hadn't thought himself. He knew well enough how emotional, how stupidly he was behaving.

"It wouldn't matter to him. I gave him everything and he still…" He choked on his words, refusing to fall to pieces in front of France. He had not fallen so far yet as to openly weep in front of those he didn't trust. "There was nothing I could have done. What I do from this point further will matter as little now as it did then."

"You don't honestly believe that," France stated, as if it were plainly evident. "If you truly thought America's leaving you were such an inevitable fate, you would not still be mourning his loss." Arthur cringed, trying to escape France's voice by curling further into the couch. There it was. There was the logic he hadn't been able to face. Because if there was something he could have done—something he could have fixed, then it was his fault. It was a burden of thought too heavy for him to bear.

"Stop, Francis," he hissed, pressing himself as closely as possible to the chair in a pitiful attempt to escape. His back gave a dull throb, which only served to remind him of the new scar that had carved itself there with the end of the war. Nearly a year ago, apparently, and it still hurt. Much like his heart. "I'll not speak of this. Not with you." The other nation ignored him entirely.

"Well, you've had enough time to mull it over, so I'm sure you've thought all this before, haven't you? Then tell me, what part of this mess was your so-called inevitable catalyst? Was it the war you and I waged? The taxes you levied? Your disciplinary decisions?" _Your insistence on pursuing the occult, when you knew it made him nervous. Your refusal to let him trade with others, the way you forced him to finish his plate and his chores. _His mind supplied the reasons where France cut off, was full to the brim of them.

"Stop," Arthur tried again, but the word was weak and pleading.

"Face it, _mon ami_. He left as a direct result of your actions," He shivered, trying to drive the proclamation from his thoughts, to no success. Francis's words echoed painfully through his skull. "Accept that responsibility, learn from it, and move on. You've an entire empire remaining even in America's wake, and plenty of enemies willing to pry it from you."

"Yourself included, I assume," He spat, trying to regain his equilibrium. The words sounded broken and wet. Arthur swallowed once, twice.

"There are circumstances in my way which make it difficult for me to lay any claims at this time, but I would have it known that unless you can gather yourself appropriately, I will take Matt off your incapable hands before another year can pass." England's heart clenched, wincing again at the mention of Alfred's near-twin. Canada. Dear, sweet Canada. So stalwart and yet so easy to forget. He wished somewhat poisonously that it had been Canada to leave instead of Alfred, and then immediately hated himself for ever thinking it.

"Thank you for your considerate forewarning," Arthur remarked dully, "now if you're quite done attending to my welfare I'd appreciate the return of my solitude." He hardened his voice to stone, trying and failing to harden his heart the same way. France's words had worked their magic. They had wormed their way into his ears and burrowed comfortably into his thoughts, breeding self-contempt and a thousand new what-ifs. He wished longingly for the scotch still spilled across the floor.

Francis gave him a long, searching look before frowning and straightening himself once more.

"I ransom your solitude in return for a promise you will at least bathe. Having spent far too long in your close proximity, I must say you've taken to the stench of London far better than its atmosphere." The frog was trying to pull him back into the game, was he? Well now it was Arthur in no mood to play.

"Go, Francis," he commanded, left feeling listless and empty. His limbs felt like leaden weights, holding him down to the couch.

"Good day, then." The Frenchman turned and finally took his leave, considerate enough to remove his stained white gloves and place them purposefully with the rubbish as a parting jab at Arthur's state of living. He couldn't muster enough energy to be properly angry about it.

"Nearly a year," he repeated aloud to himself in the dusty gloom, with no company to bother him save the pounding of his head and the buzzing of his thoughts. It was already far too crowded. "A year," he mused again to no one, brought his knees to his chest and wept.

* * *

He realized, of course, that he was being ridiculous.

It had been two days since France's visit. Only two days in the face of all those previous, and yet they seemed the most tortuous. The Frog was right. He couldn't keep going like this. America would be right to leave him if he did nothing but indulge in his own wretched self-pity. All the same, he felt stuck. He wanted to just be _done_ with this already, to wash his hands of it and forget but he couldn't. He'd tried going to visit the king yesterday, thinking he might give the ruler a piece of his mind as to the nerve of inviting his sworn enemy to comfort him. But it didn't take two steps out the door for the London rain to remind him of fighting in the cold, New World mud. And then it was like a switch had flipped in his mind, and absolutely everything he saw reminded him of bloody Alfred and his betrayal and it was all Arthur could do to turn right around and unlock his door with shaking hands.

He needed a way around this. He'd tried forgetting, he'd tried just ignoring the pain, and that obviously hadn't worked. He needed some kind of closure, some way to put this debilitating hurt to rest and move on.

"I'm not so certain this is a good idea, England." The fairy hovering somewhere near his ear whispered, her wings brushing against his hair. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore her, focusing on the runes and circles he was carefully carving into the cellar wall. She was right. It was a terrible idea—possibly the stupidest of them all. But his mind had locked onto it like a steel trap as soon as he'd wondered whether the occult could avail him, and here he was. "What if you accidentally change something?"

"I won't," Arthur insisted emphatically. He continued tapping with his hammer and chisel as he spoke. "At the very least, I am responsible enough to know better than that." Though there was an insidious voice within, a tiny temptation to do what he knew he shouldn't. To go back and change the inevitable—make it so that Alfred never wanted to leave him. Make it so that he never had to go through all this in the first place.

He shook his head to rid himself of the thought. Such shallowly sought relief wouldn't be worth the price. It didn't do to mess with time. He had to keep repeating the adage in his mind to convince himself.

"But why take the risk at all? There are other spells you could use to feel better. I could teach you to kill your emotions or—"

"No!" Arthur interrupted, not yet desperate enough to consider turning himself into an emotionless shell. "Thank you for the offer, but no," he tempered his refusal, hoping he wouldn't offend his fae friend. They were beautiful, and kind enough to him, but not anywhere close to human. He suspected they had entirely differing ranges of emotions, and a mischievous streak that shared a thick border with plain cruelty. He had to be careful with his friendships among them.

"Humans are strange," She quipped tiredly, flitting away from him to rest on the circles he'd already drawn in the floor. He didn't bother to correct her as to the subject of his species. Nations probably seemed human enough to the fae. Arthur turned back to his work, watching his guest out of the corner of his eye to be sure she wouldn't mess with his lines as some form of a prank. She didn't. She seemed to understand how important this was to him.

"There isn't much at risk," Arthur clarified gently after some time had passed. He was reaching the end of his carving work, much to his relief. His back had begun to ache with the effort of chiseling. He hadn't done anything like this in far too long. "I only need to see him again and just… recall the way things used to be before he—" Anger and sorrow rose to choke him. He didn't know who he was more furious with—Alfred, or himself. He still wasn't certain which one of them held the blame. "I need to put that memory to rest."

"Maybe," the fae voice chimed, songlike and echoing in the damp cellar. "But if you really believe this is so harmless, why haven't you asked the other wizards for help with the spell? They'd make it a lot easier, right?"

He didn't have an answer for her. The thought of asking for help turned his stomach. He supposed he'd just felt… he should have been able to overcome Alfred's loss on his own. He wanted to fix this for himself. That, and she was probably right. No other magic user within their right mind would approve of this. They'd be disappointed in him if they knew how he was using his power now. There was a reason time magic was used so sparingly. Not even Merlin had ever been able to fully tame it. And last the last time he'd tried to mess with time like this…

Well he couldn't remember it properly, but he had the definite impression that it hadn't ended well.

"Just don't come lumbering through my edge of the garden when you muck it all up," his fae friend sighed. She took her leave with a final tutting noise and a disapproving glance over her shoulder. He supposed he should be grateful she'd stayed even long enough to say hello. His magically inclined acquaintances seemed to be making themselves scarce these days. He couldn't say he blamed them. It wasn't as if he were particularly good company to keep right now.

His work didn't take long to finish after she left, but he spent hours pouring over it to be certain it was right. He double and triple checked every rune and every angle just to be certain. Time was a tricky business no matter how one looked at it, and this was a draining spell. Even with his enhanced abilities as a nation, he'd only be able to cast something like this once in a few years. He had to get it right the first time.

It was well into the night before he was satisfied, and he'd long ago had to break out a few candles. Lamps would have been more convenient, but wax was safer when handling spells than oil. The flickering light of candle-flames lent an eerie look to the room, casting shadows in places where there should have been none. Arthur grimaced, checking the cellar door one more time to be certain it was well locked and warded. He'd be creating a weak point in both time and dimension—It certainly wouldn't do for some hapless citizen to get caught up in it.

He placed a small glass vial in the center of the floor, murmuring the first part of the spell, calling for stability and integration. As soon as the glass touched stone, it stood ramrod straight, locked to the circle. Arthur continued chanting and stepped back, reaching for his next reagent. He carefully poured a bag of salt in a wide circle around himself, just in case. If anything slipped into his cellar while time was ripped open, he'd be in no fit state to fight it, at least for a while. He wove words of protection and vigilance into the spell before casting the empty bag aside.

Finally ready, he took a brief breath to affirm his resolve, before reaching for his ceremonial knife. He much preferred wand work, but this wasn't the kind of spell he could conduit so simply. It was more ancient, more binding and costly than that. With scarcely a wince, he carved runes of power into both palms, being careful not to spill any blood on the circles below, before dropping his knife and slamming his bloodied hands down at the proper point. Glowing red crept out from his wounds to fill every line he'd spent so long chiseling, feeding his array with the power it required. The magic burned through his veins like fire as it tore what it needed from him, his blood sliding across the circles of the floor, flowing illogically up the crevices in the wall. The candlelight flickered, unseen, far outshone by the magic of Arthur's own blood, blazing like a beacon through the room.

Arthur chanted words of power and time—old words that had not been spoken for far too long. He called for time to bend to his will, called on old gods and powers unseen and the flow of eternity itself. Before long, he had to shout to be heard. All around him, the echoes of time whistled and screamed, trying to make him falter. He did not. He was too familiar with this magic, too used to any pain it could threaten. He kept chanting, even as phantom claws drifted over his arms and face, even as his vision began to dim and the room seemed to sway, he chanted.

Slowly, so slowly, his efforts began to bear fruit. The glass vial set at the center of his array lifted gently up, into the air, and began to fill. Centimeter by centimeter his blood and magic poured in, causing the vial to glow white hot with power. All the shrieking, all the shadows and light were sucked twisting into the vial, spiraling into its vacuum until only the glowing of the runes remained. Eventually, that too was pulled in, snaking its way away from his fingertips.

He shouted the last word with tremendous effort just as the white glow of the glass vial began to dim, after the last vestiges of his magic-infused blood had disappeared within. Only then did he allow himself to collapse in the cool dark, his palms finally lifting from the stone with a disconcerting stickiness. No bloody wound remained, but the runes he'd carved stayed visible, shiny pink and tender like a badly-healed burn. He was careful not to smudge his salt-circle as he curled in on himself, trying to let the dizziness and exhaustion pass. He'd forgotten how hard it had been to cast like this without others there to help him. Had it really been so long since he'd relied on himself?

He had to wait far longer than he'd anticipated just to regain the strength to sit up. It took even longer to cast his senses out, and make certain no creature of the void had followed the lure of his magic across the space between dimensions. As he'd hoped, there was nothing save a few shadow spirits, too weak to threaten him. The fabric of time was thin here now, and Arthur would have to be careful with spells here in the future, but other than that, everything was fine. All the same, he waited a little longer than needed before he tried to stand. Long years and painful lessons had taught him one could never be too careful when it came to the arcane.

Still, anticipation made him restless. It was all he could bear to sit and wait with the culmination of his efforts so near. What was once a simple glass vial had been transformed into an intricate hourglass, filled to the brim with delicate, red sand. The bases of the glass seemed to have been carved of a smooth ebony, painted ever so subtly with a dark crimson varnish. It hung in the air on a chain of rose-gold, suspended as if worn on an invisible neck. The whole thing glowed with a dim, humming light that sang of power.

"Brilliant," he muttered to himself half-sarcastically. He hadn't remembered the damn thing being quite so ostentatious. It looked like a curio the frog would surely covet. But it was small, and therefore easy enough to hide, he supposed.

Once he was finally satisfied that no greater danger lurked in the dark, he stepped across the salt-circle, strode over his newly smooth floor and took the hourglass from the air. Its weight felt strange in his hand, dropping like a stone into his palm a half second after he'd already grasped it. Its dim light faded, but didn't completely go out. The luminescence simply seemed to retreat, back into the center of the glass.

Arthur paid its oddities no mind, and simply looped the thing around his neck. It hissed as it touched his skin, though he felt no pain. In truth its metal felt uncannily cold. He ignored the thing, and felt his way out of the dark, back to the cellar lock. Already, despite his exhaustion he felt more energized than he had in years. He had a mission and a purpose, and the strangest feeling that despite every bit of common sense he'd ever learned, he was doing the right thing.

* * *

**1734, New York, the New World**

"England? Hey, are you okay?" The world around him filled in slowly, color and sound sluggishly making their way back to his field of recognition. Arthur groaned as bone-deep exhaustion and blistering pain flooded his now-aware mind. Agony emanated from the center of his chest, radiating from the exact point where the time focus had—

The time focus?! Arthur forced his protesting body into motion, pushing himself back to sitting. His eyes flew open—

Only to be met with clear, sky blue.

"England?" Alfred blinked down at him, looking considerably younger and less hostile than when Arthur had last seen him. His breath froze in his chest. "Oh good! You're awake! Did you fall and hit your head?"

In retrospect, he'd known this was a terrible idea from the beginning. He just hadn't thought it would all go south so _soon. _

"No," he choked, or tried to. His voice seemed locked in his chest. Of all the blasted, wretched times and places—how had he managed to come back to the one clearing in New York where Alfred would be fifty years ago?

"Hey, you don't look so good. Are you sure you're alright?" The concerned blond reached for him with careful hands, as if approaching a wild animal. Arthur had seen him do it enough times to recognize the way Alfred was looking at him, edging ever so carefully forward. He knew he must seem a fright but he—he hadn't been prepared for this. He felt locked in place—didn't know what to do or say. The plan had just been to see him one more time, not… not whatever this was. He was changing things already. "England?" Alfred touched his forehead, gently, just as Arthur had done to him many times before. "I don't think you have a fever, but you don't seem well. Does your tummy ache?"

Arthur just couldn't… he seemed to care so much. Here was the child he'd lost—the one who worried about his safety and waited endlessly by the port just to see him. He hadn't known he would ever lose this. He didn't know how things had spiraled so quickly away from him, but…

He'd thought, somehow, that seeing Alfred again would make him feel better. Instead he only seemed to see every regret more clearly. He tipped forward, hugging his charge close with heavy arms.

"Whoa! England, what?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated the words over and over again into his colony's shoulder, not certain any longer what he was apologizing for. He'd been a fool to try this. The whole mess had been doomed from the beginning. Glaring past the tears in his eyes, he reached again for the hourglass at his neck. He'd just have to travel forward to a few hours before he'd gone back, and stop himself from ever trying. It wouldn't be hard.

It… wouldn't be hard at all….

"Alright, you are seriously frightening me here," Alfred called, brushing away the tear-tracks on Arthur's face. The Britton could only sit frozen, his mind locking on to a terribly irresponsible realization. He had the time focus. He could go back and stop himself whenever he needed, and all of this would be erased. So why not indulge himself a little? Why not let himself live one last fantasy? "That's it. I'm taking you home," Alfred insisted, pulling England up and over his shoulder with ridiculous ease. He settled Arthur into a piggyback position, leaning forward so he wouldn't slide off.

"Put me down," He grumbled, his voice slurred by pain and exhaustion. His injured chest rubbed uncomfortably against Alfred's small back, reminding him of his stupidity with each step. The hourglass had been more costly to operate than he'd remembered, but he supposed he'd never had cause to jump back more than a few years. Traveling so far was extremely draining, even to him. If he were a mortal, he had no doubt he would already be dead.

"No way! You're hurt, and I'm strong enough. You're really light!" Alfred's stubborn cheer was undaunted. They moved quickly through the woods, back to the New York of fifty years ago. They must have seemed a strange sight, a grown man being carried effortlessly by, for all appearances, a twelve-year-old. Luckily, there were few people on the roads to gawk. It was early morning, just past sunrise. Spring, if the chirruping of birds could be trusted.

He hadn't realized he'd missed the New World so much. He wondered how he'd forgotten its smells and sounds so easily. It was odd to be here and no longer feel it as a part of himself. Even unlocked from time, he could still feel his land, his people. But the space where the colonies had been was blank and hollow.

The scar on his back throbbed.

"So, not that I'm not glad to see you, but why are you here? You said you wouldn't return for a few years, right?" Alfred's childish voice shook him from his downward spiral of thoughts. He huffed tiredly. Leave it up to America's boredom to spur his curiosity. Doubtless he was holding countless inquiries back in that blond head of his.

"Change of plans," he rasped. His voice still sounded oddly grating, throat rough as sand paper. He wondered if the hourglass had somehow burned him. It exacted odd prices, it seemed. Time had always been fickle. "I had thought to surprise you."

"Well, I do like surprises. Can't say I think much of you getting here so beat up, though." Alfred mused cheerily. He marched forward at a steady pace, his sheer bloody strength still unfailing. Not for the first time, Arthur wondered what kind of destiny a child so strong was meant for. He'd never realized before that he might not get to be a part of it.

They were nearing the house close to the port, if he remembered correctly. Alfred had insisted on building the thing there. It seemed like forever ago. The kid had said he wanted to be the first to see England's ship come in. America had been so earnest, so eager to see him every time. The more he remembered, the bigger the dread and guilt within him grew. _This_ Alfred—this kid carrying him dedicatedly through the streets with scarcely a thought about it, would never have betrayed him. Arthur must have done something to precipitate the change. He must have messed up somewhere. He just… even after all the days he'd lost moping, he couldn't figure out what he'd done wrong.

Dockworkers and the few townspeople out roaming the early morning streets goggled as they went past, only God knew what assumptions they were making. Arthur would have been mortified if he'd had more presence of mind. Right now, he didn't know what to think. His thoughts were racing and silent all at once. He felt he must have gone mad to be doing this now. What even was "this", anyway? What was he doing?

"England," Alfred's tone foretold another question. He blinked his way back to consciousness, didn't remember falling asleep. The steps up to Alfred's front door loomed imperiously before them.

"What?" he asked, half yawning. He tried pulling away from the kid, thinking he might be able to stand of his own volition now. America was having none of it.

"Who hurt you?" The question seemed to come from nowhere. Arthur froze, visions of muskets and bayonets nearly overwhelming him. It wasn't what Alfred meant. He was talking about the obvious wounds—he _had_ to be. And yet, Arthur's thoughts jumped to a far deeper hurt.

"No one," he murmured, but his voice was far from convincing.

"Really," the kid deadpanned. He took them up the first step, readjusting Arthur to keep him from falling. The motion jostled his hourglass, driving it sharply into whatever wound it had caused at the center of his chest. Arthur inhaled sharply, whole body spasming briefly with the pain. "What happened, are you okay?"

"Fine, I'm fine," he panted, trying to will his arms to move. He was almost too weak to pull the hourglass out from beneath his cloak and hold it, loose-gripped off to the side. His tunic seemed disconcertingly damp in its wake.

"You shouldn't lie, you know," Alfred chided, and took them up another step. Arthur had to work to keep from crying out as they moved. Even without the hourglass pressing into it, his chest screamed in pain with each upward motion. "Sorry," America called, visibly starting to panic. "There's only three more steps, can you make it? I can put you down to rest if you—" Arthur chided himself for showing such weakness. He had to be the adult here.

"It'll be okay. It hurts a bit, I'll live. Just. Go. Quickly." He commanded, and Alfred obeyed. The kid leapt up the last three steps in two bounds, and they were at the front door. Arthur's vision flashed white with agony, but he managed not to scream.

"Alright, alright," Alfred was muttering to himself, carefully freeing one hand to swing the door open. Had it not been locked? Arthur frowned. Hadn't he taught the kid to be more careful? What if someone had tried to take advantage of the unlocked door? Honestly, he needed to learn some caution. England wasn't going to be able to keep him safe for—

Oh.

No, he really wouldn't, would he? Fifty years in the future and he wasn't welcome in this house any longer. America was no longer his to protect.

"I've got you, England, you're going to be okay, right?" Alfred murmured meaningless platitudes as he slid Arthur, gently, carefully onto the chaise lounge.

"Yes," he grunted, shunting his discomfort away. Maybe fifty years in the future he'd never be allowed in this house again, but for right now, there was a child standing worried in front of him. He'd been foolish enough to step back in the past, and foolish enough to decide to stay. No matter the future to come, he owed it to Alfred to keep himself functioning. He didn't want Alfred to have to clean up after his stupid mistakes. "I'm fine, it's just… I only need to rest a bit."

"England." Alfred's boyish voice sounded strange as a disappointed deadpan. "You're bleeding, and you can hardly move. I don't think I'd call that 'fine'."

"Bleeding?" He questioned dumbly. He tried to move to look at his own tunic, and perhaps see the damage his time focus had done, but all he managed to do was hurt himself. He hissed out a few curses.

"I am pretty sure that was a word I'm not supposed to say," Alfred informed him, his blue eyes wide. Arthur covered his face with his free hand, still clutching the hourglass with the other. "Just… don't go anywhere, I'll go get the bandages and some water." The younger blond dashed off before Arthur could stop him, chasing through the house. The occasional bump and bang were enough to let him know Alfred was just as clumsy as ever, and that he was too riled up to take his time.

He shouldn't have come here. Arthur fingered his hourglass, gripping it tight in his sweating hand. He should probably go while Alfred was occupied. Just, make the jump back to the future and pray to God that the Alfred of 1784 was not in his New York City port house. He'd have to find some way to fight past this blasted exhaustion and stop himself from coming back in time still. And he'd have to deal with whatever cost the focus would demand from him this time, but…

No, it was a terrible idea. He was too weak. It was likely the focus would take too much from him and he'd be left in an even worse state in enemy territory. And what if he _didn't _make it to stop himself in time? He'd just be wasting effort. Better to recover before erasing this whole mistake from the timestream. And if it hurt to have Alfred fawning like this over him again… well so be it. It was the least he deserved.

"Was it France?" Alfred called incomprehensively as he made his way back, arms full to bursting with piles of bandages and a pot of heated water. He hadn't realized Alfred had been gone long enough for a basin to boil. His mind was drifting again.

"What do you mean?" His former colony just frowned at him, before setting his supplies down, grabbing a knife Arthur hadn't known he owned, and cutting the fabric of his shirt away. Wait…. When had America learned to do that?! He'd certainly never taught the kid any field medicine—why had he had cause to learn it while he was—

While he was away. On a ship. For years at a time.

Arthur grimaced inwardly, pieces of the puzzle beginning to fall into place in his mind. He felt ashamed of himself for not seeing these things before.

"England, you've got a wound in your chest that looks like someone tried to stab you with a hot poker," Alfred mused, his tone perfectly frank. "France is the most logical culprit I can come up with."

"No, no it wasn't—" He tried to come up with some kind of explanation, but had to cut himself off with a pained gasp as Alfred began to clean the wound. He dabbed at it with a wet rag, clinically, as if he'd done this many times before. Good god, _what_ had he _missed_ all those years aboard a ship?

"It was someone, England, I'm not stupid. They hurt you and left you there in the woods right? Just tell me who it was, and I swear, I'll make them sorry." He was so determined, so heartfelt and serious. Arthur wanted to cry and laugh hysterically all at once. He wondered what Alfred would do if he told the truth? This whole mess was all his fault and his doing. The wound at his chest was price he'd been willing to pay to sate his own weakness.

"You needn't worry," he settled for saying, "they're already more than sorry."

* * *

He quickly realized that a fifty year trip was just not something he would be able to risk a second time. Its consequences and risks were simply too dire. He could try the jump again from somewhere in the New World, but he didn't relish the idea of being found too weak to move by an older, angrier Alfred. He could try crossing the Atlantic and jumping from London, but then he risked running into himself. And since he didn't remember ever seeing a doppelganger around this time period, he was pretty certain it was an event he should avoid. He'd already be committing a dimensional faux pas by stopping himself from ever going back. He should probably try very hard not to make any more. Sure, the chances of finding himself on accident on the way to London were low, but if he knew anything, it was that fate was almost as fickle as time.

Instead, he was faced with a plan he didn't much like. He would have to find some secluded place, perhaps further west, and make a series of smaller jumps, recovering between each one. Eventually, he'd come back to his present, and he could go to the new York clearing and stop himself from ever making the idiotic decision to go back in time. There would, of course, be a minor paradox; if he didn't go back in time, he'd never be able to come to the present and tell himself not to go back. But as always, time would right itself. Likely, he'd wind up banged and bruised in London with a smashed time focus and little to no memory of the entire event, if last time had been any indication.

He still wasn't sure what, exactly, he'd been doing last time.

"Hello? England? Are you sleeping with your eyes open?" Arthur snapped back to reality, gazing across the table at his former charge. He was torn between recovering as soon as possible and trying to stay here as long as he could. Every second he spent here was a greater price to pay, and having everything he'd taken for granted before so close at hand was _torture_. But all the same… the England of this time wouldn't be around to visit for another few years, if he remembered correctly, and once he resolved the paradox none of this would ever happen anyway. Having Alfred fret over him was something he'd missed terribly and never even realized he had.

"I apologize," he offered, maintaining focus until Alfred turned back to the stove. Even after the last few days, he still felt wrong about having Alfred cook for him. But there was no denying that the kid knew what he was doing—a fact that only served to make him feel guiltier. He didn't know why. He knew well enough that Alfred had to cook for himself somehow when Arthur had been away… and yet, there was a ridiculous part of him that still wanted to protect his colony from absolutely everything. Burns and grease spatters, bruises and skinned knees. He'd keep Alfred far away from all of it, if he only could.

"Man, that fight must've torn you up something awful if you're still this out of it." The faithful colony seemed determined to weasel his attacker's name from him. Arthur wisely remained silent on the matter. "You could give me a little credit, you know. I'd be plenty helpful in a fight if you would just let me help." Arthur closed his eyes, banishing thoughts of just how good at fighting his Alfred could be. He remembered the underhanded, guerilla tactics, the impossible victories, stubborn refusal in the face of nature itself. He knew too well now. He wished he could obliterate the knowledge.

"It's alright, America. I'd not have you fight my battles for me—" he tried to say, interrupted as Alfred slammed his pan full of eggs back to the stove.

"I know that. But why can't I fight your battles _with_ you?!" Sky blue eyes glared at him from across the room with a defiance that set loose haunting memories. "_I'm taking my independence."_ Alfred had told him once, coldly. He'd worn that look then too.

"I—what?"

"You're always storming away from port and fighting on my behalf. Did you ever stop to think that maybe I'd want to do something to help you in return?" No. He honestly hadn't. Alfred was a terrible many things for him—a responsibility and a privilege and so much more. America was just… _his_ in a way that he didn't know how to define and he never, ever wanted to let go of that. No matter how terrible he had to become to keep it. He—

But he'd already lost it. Already lost _Alfred_.

"You do more than enough by just being here, when I come back." He tried to say, forcing himself to remain composed. He refused to break down like some swooning maiden. Not now. "Just, knowing you're there for me is return enough," Though he maintained his steely façade, Arthur's voice wavered ever so slightly. His heart ached with the truth of his words. He only wished he could have realized them sooner for himself.

"But what about me? How am I supposed to feel just… sitting here. Waiting. Not sure if someone's run you through with a hot iron." The steel in Alfred's voice abated. He sounded… hollow. Unsure. Too close to the way Arthur felt for comfort.

"You shouldn't have cause to worry about things like that. I am more than capable of protecting myself." He tried to console. His colony was having none of it.

"Yes, I'm sure you can. Who was it I found delirious and bleeding in the woods a few days ago then, I wonder."Alfred's too-young tone dripped with sarcasm. Arthur gaped indignantly, his disbelief tipping into annoyance. He had to get control of this situation, regardless of its permanence in the timestream.

"Don't speak to me like—"

"Like what? Like I'm well over 100 years old and I'm tired of being treated otherwise?" Arthur blinked, not sure where this had come from. Being here now, knowing the way the future had gone… already he saw the threads of rebellion that would tear Alfred away from him, and yet… they were only having this argument because Alfred wanted to protect him… There was something he was missing here. Some insurmountable terrible thing. "I know it's not much, compared to you, but it's certainly old enough to have learned a thing or two. Here's your eggs." Alfred punctuated his statement by slamming a plate on the table, just in front of Arthur's face. A few bits of egg jumped off the dish and flecked across his nose.

"Oh yes, the evidence of your maturity is astounding," England drawled dryly as he wiped the food from his face. He could easily hear Alfred's responding huff of indignation.

"Look, I know I look like a kid, and maybe I even act like one, but I just…I don't just want to be a responsibility to you. I want to be someone you can rely on." Arthur froze in place, his napkin half-lowered from his face. The last piece of the puzzle clicked finally into place.

"Oh," He mumbled, air rushing from him as if he'd been kicked in the chest. "And I guess, you'd do anything to become that, wouldn't you."

"Well, yeah. I mean, yes."

"You'd even… you'd leave me," He muttered, curling defensively at the middle.

"What!? I mean, I guess, if it would help you for some reason, but I'd never…" Arthur felt like a first class fool. It had never made sense for America to turn on him like that. He'd gone through a hundred thousand scenarios and it had never been anything more than madness. Because the child he knew, the child he raised, didn't seem to know what betrayal _was_. America, always so exuberant and careful and enchanted with him, always begging him to stay longer, always chasing him around. He didn't understand how that person could _ever_ betray him so utterly. Arthur had given him every part of himself—every last bit of his heart and soul, and for Alfred to throw all of that away was just…

But if Alfred had thought, for even one second, that he were doing it in some twisted way for Arthur's own good… If he'd pushed Alfred down that path with his extended absences and his fighting with France and his stubborn refusal to get the kid involved… well the added austerity measures were probably more of an excuse than a transgression.

"Do you always have to be such a hero?" Arthur whimpered through gritted teeth. He was hunched, trembling at the table, face in his hands, eyes squeezed shut.

"England, no!" Alfred's panic cut through the flood of memory and regret. "I want to stay with you! Please don't get upset, I didn't mean to—" He felt small hands fretting about his shoulders, trying to comfort him. "I'm sorry I brought it up, okay? I can—I can stay here and stay quiet if that's what you want, I promise. Just _please_ don't—"

"I have no need of such an oath," Arthur finally composed himself enough to say. He swallowed down the threatening tears, straightened himself to turn and hold his colony in a tight embrace. "Just… please. No matter what happens. Please don't forget how—how important you are to me. I… I don't know what I'd do if you ever left me behind."

"I would never!" Arthur grimaced at the words, tightly controlled hurt flickering over his face. Because the thing was, Alfred would. He already would. And it was all Arthur's own stupid fault.

"Alfred, listen to me," He loosened his hold on the boy, backing up until he could stare into those ridiculously blue eyes. "No matter what I might say to you, no matter how you might start to feel, I really do need you just the way you are. Nothing will ever change that." He didn't know what he thought he was doing any more. He'd just figured out the source of the problem, and now he was already trying to fix it? He was making a fool of himself. He was messing with too much of time… and yet… why did he feel it would be more foolish _not_ to try?  
America sighed, a deep and tired sound.

"Yeah, okay sure. You need me small and under your protection, right?"

"No!" Good Lord, how— Had Alfred taken every precaution and token Arthur had bestowed to mean as much? "Never! You're meant for great things. Wonderful things! There's a destiny set before you that is out of my reach. I just… You'll be ready for those things in the future, and I wanted to see you survive to meet it. I wanted to stand beside you when it arrived."

"You 'wanted?' England, I don't understand you. Are you going somewhere again? Did that wound give you a fever? What—" Arthur bit his cheek, cursing himself inwardly for such a slip. He'd almost forgotten when and where he was. It was an easy feat with America in front of him. Alfred was and had always been the locus point of his descent to madness. He couldn't help but see this kid and his counterpart back in the present as at least partially the same.

He couldn't do this. Stopping the colonies from pursing their revolution would have unseen consequences on the stream of time. He _knew _that. It was just too huge of an event, with too many strings of fate in the balance. Depending on what the future held, the price could be more than his life. More than the lives of his citizens.

He bowed his head, giving Alfred's thin shoulders one last squeeze.

"I've already said too much." Arthur murmured, stopping another salvo of questions he was sure Alfred was dying to ask. He gathered his strength, and pushed himself to his feet, stepping heavily away from the kitchen table. He was sluggish and far too tired, but this would have to do. He'd have to be recovered enough.

"Wait, where are you going?! You haven't finished breakfast yet!" Alfred fussed, hurrying after him and hovering, ever so conveniently within arm's reach. He wondered how he'd never noticed before—how very eager Alfred was for Arthur to lean on him. If only he could go back a little further, maybe he could change himself—talk to himself about the way he was treating America, come up with some kind of plan to make the kid feel involved. It could work! And…

And he really needed to get on his way back to the true present before he didn't have the strength to go through with it any longer.

Arthur bit his cheek and marched, stone faced to his room. He pulled his cloak from the closet and made sure that the hourglass was still there and functioning. All seemed well. Now he just had to think of some secluded place where Alfred wouldn't be waiting.

"England! Hey I'm serious," the colony shouted, still underfoot. He steadied Arthur with capable hands every time the Britton faltered. He realized if he didn't do something, Alfred would follow him all the way to his departure point. The kid would like as not follow him to the future, if he had a way to do it.

"Alfred," Arthur kneeled in front of him. Alfred glared fiercely, protectively back. "I have got to go, and I need you to stay here."

"Now?!" he exclaimed, his disappointment evident in the whine of his voice. "But you just got here! And you're still a little wobbly and I don't think…" His eyes narrowed. He watched Arthur with a strange, skeptical hurt. "Is this because we were fighting? Because if that's it, I'll promise to just… not say anything. I'll leave you completely alone for the rest of the visit. Just don't neglect yourself out of anger at me. I'd rather have you healthy than—"

"No, that's not it." This was just too much. This was a far deeper ache than any wound he'd ever suffered. He'd wasted so much time scolding Alfred, chiding him about his lack of consideration and manners. Had he truly been able to ignore the selflessness beneath? He swallowed his bitterness and wondered what he could possibly say. Alfred deserved the truth. Even if none of this would have happened, after he set it all to rights, he owed his colony at least that. "It's only… I have been lax in my responsibilities because I came here. Because I wanted to see you. I was stupid, and I'll have to do a lot of fixing because of it, so I need to take my leave before I—"

"You're not telling me something," Alfred frowned down at him, fingers tracing at his furrowed brows, his tense jaw. Arthur had to bite his tongue to keep the bitterness inside. He wanted to tell Alfred everything. That was part of the problem.

"It's true, there are many things I can't tell you yet. But please, I need you trust me, and stay here." The younger blond bent his head, his hands dropping to fists at his sides. He was disappointed, defiant and resigned all at once. Arthur wished he'd had the strength to stay. No matter which way he looked at it he felt he couldn't do the right thing. He pushed himself to his feet of his own power, pausing only to clasp his cloak shut.

"Fine. Go, for all I care," Alfred spat unhappily. "Don't expect me to come find you when you collapse again." Arthur sighed, gave him a summary nod, and strode from the room. He wanted to take some kind of last comfort—one more hug, one more time to cherish what he'd had… but that would likely break him and he knew it. He fumbled a while with the front lock, making certain it could latch behind him, and strode down the front steps a shattered man.

Unfortunately, his colony had been right. He really wasn't well enough to be trekking through the wilderness. Fear and emotional pain had fueled him well enough to make it outside of town. But those flagged quickly once he was back in the wood. He stumbled every few steps, leaning heavily against whatever tree trunk or stone he could find to catch his breath. Like this, he would likely only be able to manage a few years' travel at the most. It didn't matter. Anything would be enough. Alfred just needed to think him gone, and not find him again. He could worry about getting back to the correct time after he really had recovered.

He reached the clearing he'd found the first time, and kept going. He was just moving forward blindly, not really sure what he thought he would find except that he'd have to go somewhere Alfred _wouldn't_.

Miraculously, he eventually stumbled upon the edge of a pond. It was small, but decent enough. He remembered Alfred telling him once that he was fairly certain it was haunted. It was perfect. He stood on the flattest piece of earth he could find, and spun on his heel, grabbing his time focus as he moved. He chanted the words of activation and felt his tool grow hot enough to burn in his hand. Once he'd worked out the estimations in his head, he added in the command words that would tell his focus exactly when he needed to be. It hummed to life, floating out of his palm and flashing, spinning red.

The world seemed to slow down, everything perfectly still and obvious for just one moment. He heard the echo of a twig snapping, turned his head to look, and saw Alfred staring at him from the bush with wide, disbelieving eyes.

He hadn't checked to see if the kid would follow. Of course he would chose now to disobey; he already thought he had Arthur's interests in mind, so of course he—

"Damn!" He shouted, unable to be heard over the low-pitched hum of the time focus just as it slammed him forward through the timestream. He was left aching and gasping in its wake, sent flailing gracelessly to the hard-packed ground.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it all!" He shouted, all too aware of the new roughness to his voice, and the taste of blood in his mouth. He spat to his right, unamused to see bright red. He'd have to take longer before his next jump or he was going to kill himself before he could fix things.

"I _knew_ that thing was hurting you!" Arthur froze at the unfamiliar voice. He slowly raised his head, a thousand confused possibilities jumbling in his mind. None of them prepared him for the figure he saw. The voice's owner beamed down at him, seemed to tower over him in height. He wore spectacles, and some manner of hooded tunic. "Geez Arty, I told you, you can just use one like mine." He seemed completely alien in dress and accent. Maybe one of the fae? The stranger lowered his hand to take and Arthur stared at it skeptically.

"Who are you?" he rasped, and watched as that grin slid briefly into confusion, pensiveness, and finally shock.

"I am really terrible at this," the lumbering man mumbled, before ignoring England's hesitation and yanking him forcibly and carefully to his feet. "So I guess this is the first time we've met, but you're just gonna have to trust me when I say it isn't the last. So stay out of trouble this time and… uh… wait for me to find you." He rolled up his sleeve as he talked, revealing some kind of glass and plate contraption—a mess of metal and things he couldn't hope to recognize.

"What is-what are you talking about? Who _are _you?!" The stranger grinned again, twisting a few pieces of his odd accessory before slamming down on something at the wrist joint.

"Duh, I'm the Hero!" He shouted, and disappeared.


	2. America, Confused

Lol. IDEK. noticed this fic has gotten record low attention. XD  
it's okay. I'm gonna keep writin' this jerk of a fanfic anyhow. Hope you enjoy.

This chapter is inspired by "What's the Matter" by Milo Greene

* * *

**Present Year, July 2****nd****, Ottawa, Canada.**  
"Happy birthday!" Alfred shouted at the figure in the doorway, brandishing his signature grin and a carefully wrapped present. Matt grimaced at his enthusiasm, but seemed happy to see him anyway.

"Thank you, Alfred," He accepted cheerfully, reaching out to take his ungainly present off the American's hands. "And thank you for the hockey stick." He motioned for Alfred to come in, holding the door open a bit wider. Alfred moved as he was bit, pouting all the way.

"How do you already know it's a hockey stick?" He questioned skeptically, watching as Matt tore the paper carefully off and stacked the new stick up against the wall alongside several others.

"Alfred, there are only so many ways you can wrap a hokey stick," he intoned. Alfred squinted, glaring through his glasses at his timid brother.

"Challenge accepted." He announced, just as the Canadian started looking a little too nervous. Matt just better _wait _for Christmas this year.

"A-anyway," Matt stammered, fidgeting a little with the edge of his shirt. Usually he'd have his fingers twisted up in his sleeves by now, but it was a little too warm for his signature hoodie. "I'm really glad you could make it. What with it being so close to the fourth, and all. You're usually so busy." Alfred winced guiltily at the words. He'd not been the most… selfless of brothers in the past; that was true.

"Well, I planned ahead this year just so I'd have enough time. I haven't made it to enough of these," he mused, glancing around Canada's house as he spoke and taking in everything that had changed since he'd last been here. It had been too long. He'd just been so busy lately…

"What, you? Planned ahead?" Matt teased gently. "Never thought I'd see the day, eh?" Alfred laughed at his own expense, and Matt accepted the vigorous hair-ruffling gracefully in return.

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up," he goaded, watching Matt try to put his wavy locks back into some type of order. "So—"

"Oh excellent, the entertainment has arrived." The sarcastic comment caught him off guard. He looked to his right, traitorous heart beating faster within the cage of his chest. Sure enough, there Arthur was, leaning on the kitchen doorframe with a still-steaming cup of tea in hand. He stared disinterestedly in Alfred's direction, as usual.

"Good to see you too, Iggy," the American chimed, trying not to be hurt when Arthur just raised his cup in acknowledgement and walked back into the room he'd previously exited. He sighed, familiar twinges of guilt and regret reaching up from within to strangle his good mood. He and Arthur had been getting along so much better recently—he'd almost forgotten how tense things got around the Fourth. "I didn't know he was gonna be here," he grumbled to his younger twin. Matt picked at his shirt hem in response, neck bent with timid contrition.

"I… I was going to tell you, but you didn't RSVP, so… Yeah, he's here. And we were going to go pick up France at the airport later. I thought…" he sighed heavily. "I dunno, I thought it could be some kind of family birthday thing, or something." Matt looked more and more embarrassed and the longer he talked, like he was expecting Alfred to walk out or insult the idea.

"That sounds nice. I don't think we've done that for a while," he smiled warmly as he spoke, clasping Matt briefly on the back. In all honesty, he couldn't say he was looking forward to dealing with Arthur in one of his _moods_, but this obviously meant a lot to Matt. Besides, maybe when Francis got here he'd diffuse the situation by being a bigger pain in the ass than Alfred could ever hope to be. That man made getting on Arthur's nerves look like an art form.

"Not since the frog tried to shave my eyebrows off in the nineties." The Britton's voice echoed out from the kitchen, proving he could hear them perfectly well. Alfred winced. "I'll be rooming in a hotel tonight to prevent that kind of idiocy, by the by. Hope you don't mind."

"Oh, no I don't mind but… are you sure? I've got plenty of room here." Matt's confused disappointment was obvious to anyone who knew him well. Surely Arthur would rethink—

"No, I'm quite sure. After all, I didn't know _he_ was going to be here either." Oh for the love of… for an old man, he sure could pull off the catty princess routine well.

"Arty, come on, I didn't mean it like that." Alfred whined. He waited a few seconds for a response, but there were no further comments from the kitchen. The American sighed in frustration. He turned back to his brother. "Sorry, dude. I'm messing this up already."

"It's—it's okay. I probably should have made arrangements for all of you at hotels anyway. I just… kind of wanted…" Matt was always so careful about the things he wanted. He would pursue them, but the moment they seemed to come into conflict with what anyone else was doing he just… dropped it. He put everyone else above himself. Alfred wasn't sure whether that was something to be admired or pitied. He settled for both, slinging a heavy arm over Matt's shoulders.

"Well, it's your birthday today, so what you want goes. Except with grumpy people, of course."

"I _can_ still hear you, you know." came the muffled complaint from the kitchen. Alfred stuck his tongue out at it childishly.

"Um. I did get a few new games. I thought maybe we could try them out?" Matt diffused the situation before it could escalate, already trying to lead Alfred away from the dangers of an irritable Arthur.

"Sounds awesome," he mused. "Race you to the couch!" And just like that, things were back to normal. He and Matt roughhoused, tripped and wrestled each other all the way to the gaming system in their usual contest to see who got to use the best controller. Alfred 'let' Matt win, of course, seeing as it was his birthday and all. They started with a couple racing games and a classic arcade fighter. Then somewhere a few hours in, Matt mentioned being stuck with one of his single player games and Alfred heroically offered to play past the problem for him.

It had turned out to be much more difficult a game than Alfred was expecting. The beginning gameplay was fun, and had drawn him in immediately, but the finer points of the game were tricky. Frankly he was impressed with Matt for getting so far alone.

The point that had stymied Matt did indeed seem impossible. Alfred tackled it as if it were a personal vendetta, going at the mission over and over again and getting _so close_ but not quite. Somewhere between the first attempt and the tenth, Matt passed out beside him on the couch, knees pulled to his chest, face in the couch arm. Alfred frowned at the screen and his controller in turns, wondering why even he couldn't get passed this part. He grumbled and tried again, this time sneaking cautiously into the last room. Predictably, he was spotted by a minion that shouldn't have been able to see him and summarily overwhelmed.

"Game over" The screen read in thin, white font.

"Ugh," Alfred replied. He would have preferred to respond with some Xbox Live level cussing, but he was trying to be minimally conscientious of his sleeping twin.

"Are you going to keep this up all night?" Arthur's voice surprised him for the second time that day. He nearly fumbled his controller in shock, but managed to catch it easily enough. Alfred turned to look over his shoulder, and there Arthur was, leaning on the back of the couch.

"Nah, we were just going till it was time to get France," He replied, setting the controller down and sighing. He didn't much want to beat this thing if Matt wouldn't be awake to see the next cutscene anyway. "We didn't accidentally miss that, did we?" Arthur snorted.

"Hardly. He bought tickets late. He'll just be reaching customs in about an hour, most likely." He glanced softly at Matt as he spoke, smiling when he realized just how ridiculously the Canadian had arranged himself. Alfred had to try very hard to deny the pang of jealousy frothing up within him. He couldn't remember the last time Arthur had looked at him like that—like he was something important. Something to be cared for.

He promptly wiped the thought from his mind.

"How he manages to sleep through such a noisy, violent game, I'll never understand," Arthur mused aloud.

"Um… right." Alfred searched for something he could say in response, but he couldn't think of anything intelligent. The silence stretched on, uncomfortable and stark. Not for the first time, he caught himself wishing he could find a way to make things easy between them again. Or maybe just a way to stop caring.

"So, are you—" He tried to say, at the same time Arthur blurted

"I guess that game was—" They stared at each other, seemingly overtaken by the same sense of awkwardness. After a few moments of mutual sputtering, Arthur motioned that Alfred should continue first.

"I was just going to ask, are you staying on this side of the Atlantic long?" The Britton stilled, taking an unusually long amount of time to think on his answer.

"I had only planned to be here a few days," he finally rejoined, his tone more than a little cagey. "Why?"

"Well I don't know, I was just thinking…it's really nice, us all being together at Matt's like this. It means a lot to him."

"Mmhm." Arthur still eyed him skeptically, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Alfred wasn't sure what it was he seemed to fear so much.

"And it would mean a lot to me if maybe we could all come to my house for _my_ birthday." Arthur grimaced and began stomping back to the kitchen before he could even finish his sentence. "It wouldn't be a big deal! You could even fly home with me from Matt's tomorrow, come _on _Arthur you're not being fair."

"Fair?! Fair. _I'm _not being fair." He grouched back, halting his retreat. "No, what wasn't _fair_ was—" He visibly stopped himself from saying anything further, going so far as to cover his own mouth. His breath hissed hot and angry from his nostrils as he fought for his usual stiff composure. "Alfred, it's never happened before and it's not going to start now. Please stop trying to get me to come over for your… party." Arthur managed to find his more usual volume and tempo. He lowered his hand, and settled for grasping both upper arms instead. The fabric of his button down shirt wrinkled noticeably under the pressure of his fingertips. Alfred growled in exasperation. Was it really so wrong to want to be able to celebrate with Arthur again? To share in another year of life?

"Arthur, look, I know there's some bad blood between us, but it was more than two hundred years ago—closer to two hundred fifty now. Why can't we just—"

"Stop it!" Arthur shouted raggedly, fabric of his shirt sleeves twisting in his white-knuckled hands. He knew he was going too far, but he just wanted to understand. Why couldn't he get past this point in their history? Didn't the idiot realize he'd done most of what he had for England's sake as much as his own?

"No, not this time," he insisted loudly, kneeling now on the couch, fully turned around to face his audience. "I walk on eggshells around you about this every other year, but for once I just want—"

"Somethin' wrong?" Matt slurred, voice still thick with sleep. His head sprang up from his position face down in the pillowed couch with unusual quickness. Alfred glanced at him and the words he wanted slipped away, leaving him shame-faced in their wake. He'd gotten so wrapped up in this mess between him and Arthur that he'd forgotten who this day was really supposed to be about.

Matt looked carefully between them, taking in their body language and the sounds that had likely awoken him. It wouldn't be hard to put two and two together.

"Nothing in particular," Alfred assured him with false cheer. He should have known better than to try to actually talk to Arthur. He'd been too immersed in his own personal problems to think about Matt and now he'd thrown the tentative peace of this little event. He glanced at the nation in question, tracking the tense line of his shoulders. Arthur was obviously livid, still standing on the other side of the room. His back was hunched, as if he were trying to hide from the things Alfred had said.

"Somehow, I don't believe you." Matt grumbled, his arms folding across his chest. Alfred could only sigh.

He didn't get it. He _really_ just didn't get it. Was it that damn jarring to think about coming to a stupid birthday party? Still? He couldn't believe that after so long, Arthur hadn't gotten over it. There had to be something else, some other transgression or mess or _something_ in play. He wanted desperately to know what it was so he could fix it. He just… he only wanted to be able to interact with Arthur again without the shadow of their past hanging over him.

Okay, that wasn't entirely true. He wanted a lot more than Arthur would ever be willing to give. He had it bad for the Brit and he knew it, but that wasn't anything new. He'd loved the stupid jerk from the beginning. Usually, he could manage not to let that completely rule his actions. Apparently not so much today.

"Listen, Matt," Alfred started over, standing from the couch. His legs protested as he stood, blood just remembering how to flow properly after sitting still for far too long. "I should probably go. I'm making a mess." He declared humbly, trying not to worry too much about the hurt look on his brother's face.

"That won't be necessary," Arthur cut in. He'd managed to put himself back together fairly well. His voice gave nothing away save his usual disaffected cool, shirt back to its smooth and un-rumpled state. Still, it was easy to see the place where he must have run a hand through his hair in frustration—a good chunk of it stood straight up in a testimonial cowlick. "I find myself a bit tired from the trip over. I think I'll retire early."

"Oh, but… I mean if you're tired that's fine, but I haven't made dinner yet and I thought—"

"I promise I'll be back bright and early for some kind of breakfast, I'm just… not very hungry right now." He placated, stepping into the next room where he'd apparently stowed his suitcase. "I hate to land the task of getting the Frog from the airport on you like this, but I honestly don't think I can manage to stay awake for too much longer."

"That's… fine," Matt sputtered. The twins watched with tense bafflement from the den as Arthur moved about the house gathering his things. "Well, at least let me call you a cab." The Canadian offered, scrambling to get up from the cushy sofa. He lurched to his feet with all the usual clumsiness intrinsic to his recently-awoken state. "As soon as I remember where I've put my cell phone, eh?" Alfred could barely hear him muttering beneath his breath. He started for his room, probably would have tripped his way up the stairs if Arthur hadn't chosen to stand in his way.

"No need. I've got it all taken care of," he insisted, his suitcase fully packed and wheeled to a stop at his side. He pulled a bewildered Matt in for a quick familial hug. "Happy birthday luv." Alfred turned away from the scene, his heart burning green with jealousy. "Toss Francis out on his arse if he does anything too annoying. It does him good to be reminded of his manners every once in a while."

"Yeah, okay," Matt agreed, "I'll see you in the morning though?" Inexplicably, it was Alfred he chose to look to before answering. He searched the American with an incomprehensible look, muscles of his jaw tensing and relaxing in turns as he pondered. Alfred frowned, growing increasingly more uncomfortable beneath his searching stare.

"Certainly," he finally answered, just when Alfred thought he might burst with annoyance. He turned and marched for the door.

"I'll make pancakes!" Matt shouted to his retreating back. Arthur waved to show he'd heard, and was gone with no further fanfare.

Matt's gaze snapped to Alfred as soon as the door was shut. His glare was uncharacteristic and sharp.

"What did you do?" Alfred made an abortive noise of frustration, collapsing languidly back to the soft embrace of the couch.

"I don't know!" he whined, only just resisting the urge to tear at his hair. He was really getting tired of this. Matt just continued to stare, quirking a brow in quiet disbelief. "Ugh, I'm trying, okay? I really am!" Matt said nothing for a few moments, before sighing and following his twin's example. He thudded back into the sofa, settling easy beside Alfred.

"Maybe you're trying too hard," Matt mused, staring tiredly at the ceiling. They lay in disgruntled quiet for a while, each turning the day's events over in their thoughts. "You know, I really thought it was going to work this year." Matt's mumbled words added another layer of guilt to Alfred's emotional state.

"Sorry Mattie, I shouldn't have tried to say anything," he offered, disappointed in himself.

"What were you guys even talking about to get him so upset?"

"I only asked him to come to my place for the fourth," Alfred grumbled. "He refused immediately as usual, so I said I didn't understand why one stupid war over two centuries in the past couldn't just be water under the bridge already."

He felt movement on the cushion beside him. When he raised his head to look, he was met with Matt's exasperated glare.

"What?"

"Alfred, you didn't really..."

"_What_?" he repeated, defensive. Matt dropped his gaze, pinched the bridge of his nose to funnel his irritation.

"That's not the kind of thing you can just… I mean I knew you were a bit obtuse, but _really_, Alfred you can't just—"

"Why not?" Alfred exclaimed, his volume growing in tandem with his anger, "He's had plenty of wars with plenty of nations, and he gets along with _them _just fine."

"Well, yes, but those were different." Matt declared. He sounded so certain, so sure of the situation. Alfred wondered just what obvious bit of information he must be missing.

"How was our fight different from any other? It was a disagreement between our people, nothing more!" Matt gaped at him.

"You don't honestly think that, do you?"

"Yes!" he insisted, not sure how he could be wrong, or why there was some voice within already protesting that he was terribly off-base.

"Well, _he_ doesn't." Matt's brows were furrowed with concern, his eyes locked on a memory. "Look, you weren't there when… after… well, back then. So I wouldn't expect you to understand, but when you left, Arthur was…" He trailed off, his slow lilt hinting at tragedy.

"No, I wouldn't understand, because he stopped talking to me," Alfred insisted, ire rising as he recalled all the slights and insults of that time—all Arthur's refusal to deal with him as a real country. It took another war for England to meet him seriously on even a diplomatic level again. "I'd think I'd have much more cause to be upset than he does, considering the way he refused to admit my existence for years afterwards."

"Alfred you—he…If you could have seen him back then…" Matt choked on his words, trying to pick out the right ones. After a few seconds of pained stammering, his mouth snapped abruptly shut. He bowed his head. "I don't think I should be the one telling you this."

"Well if you don't, I don't know who will. It's not like Arthur's going to open up any time soon." Alfred pointed out testily. Matt just shook his head, pulling himself to his feet with a sense of finality.

"No, I'm done talking." Matt insisted. Alfred grumbled unflatteringly below his breath. For all Matt was a pushover, he could be unbendingly stubborn at the most inopportune times. "Now come on, let's go pick up France." He held out his hand to take. Alfred glared defiantly at the offered palm, but took it all the same.

* * *

**Present Year, July 3****rd****, 3:35 AM, Ottawa, Canada.**

Apparently, when Arthur said he was going to "retire early," what he really meant was that he was going to find the nearest bar and drink himself into a stupor.

"You are so going to owe me for this." Alfred grumbled for the fourth time that hour, readjusting the drunkard on his back a bit more forcefully than strictly necessary.

"Mm," Arthur eloquently responded, his nose pressing painfully against Alfred's collarbone. Rain fell in sheets over them as they trudged down the block to Arthur's hotel, making everything even more difficult and awkward than it needed to be. Alfred took another few steps, had to readjust to keep the idiot from sliding off again, another few steps. The pattern had swiftly grown tedious.

"Next time you call me drunk off your ass at two fucking thirty in the morning, I'm just gonna hang up and go back to sleep."

"m'kay." Arthur's words were muffled, his breath coming in tiny puffs of hot air at Alfred's neck. The warmth weighing heavy on his back was a sharp contrast to the cold wet of their soaking clothes. It was a sensation that might have been distracting if he weren't so annoyed with the while situation.

" And then you can have your embassy bail you out of jail the next morning, because I won't come do that either."

"Shhhh," Arthur tried to placate him, one unsteady hand freeing itself to pat gently at his face. "Go back to sleep," he suggested incomprehensibly before the hand abruptly dropped, flopping back to its place hanging around Alfred's neck. He felt as if he were wearing some sort of demented stole.

"I would have _loved_ to go back to sleep about an hour ago," he quipped back, even though he knew there was really no point when Arthur was this goddamn drunk. He probably wouldn't remember a word of this in the morning. "But apparently, your raging alcoholism had other plans." Alfred had to pause and shift Arthur's weight once again. He could see the hotel doors from here. He just needed to put up with this for a littlelonger.

"Well, 's your fault." Arthur's voice had lowered to a pathetic whine, only just audible over the pouring of the rain. Alfred rolled his eyes. Here they went again. He'd wondered when Arthur's weepy-drunk side would show. He'd hoped he'd missed that phase.

"It is not. You're a fucking adult, and if you decide to go drown in scotch that's no one's problem but yours." He wasn't convinced it was a hyperbole. By the time he'd gotten to the bar, Arthur had managed to pour at least one drink down his front, and had left two bottles of the stuff sitting around him as evidence. It was true that he'd likely been drinking for quite a while, but if he weren't a country he'd almost certainly have to be hospitalized for alcohol poisoning.

"Yer a jerk," Arthur retorted.

"Hey, this jerk is perfectly capable of dropping you on your ass and walking away. I am _not_ in the mood for this." He didn't even know why he'd come in the first place. He'd picked up the phone, heard Arthur's usual drunken sobbing, and snuck out of Matt's house without a second thought. He supposed after their argument earlier, he was just glad to be needed… more the fool him.

Arthur finally fell into morose silence, allowing Alfred to focus on just getting them indoors. The journey seemed remarkably quicker and easier once the peanut gallery had gone quiet. He stumbled through the revolving entrance with more than a little difficulty and tripped into the lobby irritable and dripping with water. The lone worker at the desk stared at him with blatant surprise.

It only took him a little extra time, and Arthur's driver's license, to convince the lady it was really okay to give out the room number. He asked for a spare room-key, charged the extra fee to Arthur's stay with no little amount of gleeful vengeance, and made for the elevator. Considering the previous part of this foray, it was remarkably easy to cart Arthur the rest of the way to his room. The hall was well lit, but silent and devoid of life. It was strangely creepy.

"Just a little further," Alfred mused aloud, turning the last corner and counting down the door numbers with trepidation. Arthur kept his mouth shut on the matter. If it weren't for the distinct lack of snoring, Alfred might have assumed he was asleep.

The last few steps to Arthur's door were somewhat anticlimactic. Alfred juggled the Englishman one last time, had to swipe the card twice with his still dripping hands before the lock disengaged, and opened the damn door. He kicked it open with one foot and maneuvered into the room, taking care not to get his passenger stuck in the doorway. The latch clicked shut behind them with a sound of finality.

"Awesome, you're home." Alfred announced with sarcasm. He let Arthur finally slide unceremoniously off of him and fall to the bed, wet clothes and all. There was enough ambient light filtering in from the street outside that he didn't have to bother with the switch "Now promise me I'll never have to repeat this experience, and I'll promise not to tell Matt why you _really_ aren't at breakfast tomorrow morning."

"Alfred, I am actually going t'be there." He slurred, eyes still closed. He looked quite pathetic, all his clothes clinging to his slight form. He'd started shivering at some point after they got into the air-conditioning, and he didn't seem to have noticed yet.

"I kind of doubt it, dude. You're going to be nursing one hell of a hangover tomorrow," Alfred glanced around the room and found the thermostat, quickly switching the air off. He didn't plan on sticking around, but he could at least be that considerate.

"Yeh, only hangovers are kind of a thing I'm good at."

"I don't really know that's something you should be proud of." He patted himself down, digging Arthur's cell and wallet out of his back pocket. The bar had confiscated them for him before he'd arrived. He set the items on the hotel desk. "Alright, if that's all, I guess I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Leavin' me?" Arthur called out weakly. Alfred tried not to let the words get to him.

"Yes," he sighed, exasperatedly. "I'm tired, Iggy. And I've gotta get back to Matt's before they realize I went out, right?" He didn't know why he was trying to use logic on a drunk. He was prepared to fight off Arthur's usual regimen of unrelenting whines and complaints, and so he was completely taken off guard when the older nation said simply,

"Right." He curled slowly into a ball on the bed, too out of it to remember how to use the blankets. Alfred had to resist the urge to waltz over there and take care of him; he'd never get out of here otherwise.

"O-kay then. Later," He called, walking briskly back to the door. He purposefully ignored the pitiful sneeze that followed him out. Alfred had more than done his part. He'd dealt with drunken singing, drunken weeping, and two instances of vomit already tonight. He was pretty certain he didn't owe Arthur anything further.

He actually made it to the elevator before guilt and his damned hero complex forced him to turn right around. Lucky for him, he'd kept the extra key.

"I swear, I am never going to let you live this down," he groused as he let himself back into the room. Arthur remained right where he'd left him, curled up and shivering in a miserable wet lump. One emerald green eye slipped open, ever so slightly, to stare at him. "Alright, where did you stash your suitcase?" Alfred asked wearily. He had to flip the light on this time, needing it to search for Arthur's belongings. He didn't know why Arthur couldn't just be lazy like normal people and keep his things spread out on the floor.

"Were you leavin' a minute ago?" Arthur remained unhelpful in his search, still peering skeptically out at him from a single squinting eye, brow furrowed with confusion. He looked like he was trying to decide whether Alfred was real or not.

"Nah, couldn't leave you like this," He admitted truthfully. He continued his search, going so far as to check under the bed skirts before wising up and glancing in the hotel room's tiny closet. "Aha!" he cried, reaching for the small, black suitcase and pulling it out for easier access. He unzipped it, and immediately found a pair of pajamas. They were the dorky sort of matched, patterned set. He'd usually be teasing Arthur over them by now if circumstances were anything different, but he was mostly just relieved to find them. "So, am I gonna have to dress you, or do you think you can do that by yourself?"

"But, you did leave though." Arthur was seemingly stuck on the mystery of his reappearance. "Yer always leavin' me." He spoke with a tired sort of resignation, left Alfred reeling with guilt even though he was sure he'd done nothing wrong.

"I'm not leaving now," he insisted, walking forward to sit next the bleary-eyed drunk on the bed.

"Don't see why not. I'd prob'ly deserve it."

"Hey now," Alfred chided. He hooked an arm under Arthur's knees, the other around his shoulders, uncurling him from his balled state. "I thought we were done with the moping part." It was easy enough, if a little awkward, to divest Arthur of his soaking trousers. He only had to lay the Brit flat on the bed, unfasten them without thinking about it over much, and yank them off from the cuffs. Arthur didn't seem to notice what he was doing, except to shiver harder as his skin was exposed to the air. Alfred considered doing something about Arthur's underwear as well, but decided that was just too creepy. He had only the most altruistic of intentions, but there were just some things he was better off not doing.

"I'll be done when it stops." Arthur mumbled perplexingly. He spoke with visible effort, both eyes fluttering shut. Arthur would be asleep in no time at all—was likely half way there already.

Putting pants _on_ someone determined not to help proved considerably more difficult than taking them off. However, after pulling Arthur every which way and accidentally taking the back of Arthur's skull to his nose, Alfred eventually managed to figure the whole thing out. He kept Arthur balanced against his chest as he moved on to the task of removing a sopping shirt. Fortunately, Arthur had worn one of his usual stodgy button down shirts, so it was easy enough to unbutton and tug down the arms. He tried not to gag at the strong twin smells of scotch and vomit that clung to the fabric as he threw it into the bathroom doorway.

"'s cold," Arthur finally had the wherewithal to protest. Alfred could only sigh, reaching for the new shirt.

"I know, I'm working on that. Now hold your arms up." Of course, Arthur didn't bother to follow his instructions, just stayed slumped and shivering against him. Alfred muttered darkly and held the shirt out in front of them both, working Arthur into the sleeves first. Once he had both arms in, he pulled them up and started tugging the fabric over Arthur's head. He was just smoothing the fabric over Arthur's trembling back when his fingers hit the strange texture of scar tissue.

"Whoa, what…?" As nations, they were all bound to have marks, each scarred by one conflict or another, sometimes natural disasters or other calamities. He had a few decent looking scars himself, but this one was different. It was obviously old, stretched tight and pale white down the length of Arthur's spine. Even though it had healed long ago, it obviously hadn't healed well. The rest of Arthur's skin stretched away from its edges, leaving pink lines behind where the skin had pulled taught. The faint, half-moon impressions of old stitching glinted almost imperceptible along the edges of both sides, proving that this must have been a deep wound when it happened. "Arthur, what on earth is this from?" He asked in amazement, tracing the line unconsciously with the pads of his fingertips. The British nation shook beneath his hand, and Alfred snapped back to the present, scrambling to get Arthur's shirt down.

"You." Arthur's murmur was near to inaudible, but it hit Alfred with terrible force all the same. He froze at the word, went still with the shirt's hem still clutched tightly in his hands.

"I…sorry what?" He asked, voice uneven. Surely Arthur couldn't possibly mean... Arthur wasn't the most conscious of what was going on right now, he was probably just rambling to a delusion, not answering Alfred's thoughtless question. He turned back to what he was doing, settling the fabric around Arthur's waist and climbing out from behind him. He leaned the near unconscious man back against the pillows, tugging the blankets out from under him and tucking them over him instead. Arthur didn't say anything further on the matter, and Alfred felt awash with relief, though he didn't know why he should. There was no reason for a wound like that to be his fault, right?

He wandered to the sink, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. By the time he'd set it on Arthur's nightstand, the drunk seemed to have slipped completely into the folds of sleep.

"See you in the morning, dummy." He whispered, ruffling a quick hand affectionately through damp hair. There wasn't much reason for him to stay now. He'd already seen Arthur throw up, and there didn't seem to be any further danger of that tonight. The hangover would start hitting in a couple hours, and Arthur wouldn't want him around then anyway. He'd made sure his drunken charge wouldn't catch cold. The best thing he could do for him now was go down and arrange for a wakeup call and a room service delivery of Advil. He switched the light back off, and finally rerturned to the door, fully intent on leaving for real this time. Arthur's weak voice surprised him just as he reached for the door knob.

"Yer always leavin' me," Arthur repeated his earlier statement, sent frissions of dread threading through Alfred's whole being. "'s never stopped hurting."

He felt locked in place, the sight of the twisted scar marring Arthur's back flashing before his vision. He thought of Matt's flustered words earlier in the evening, the pained, angry look on Arthur's face any time he tried to bring up the Fourth.

"Arthur, did I—" He stuttered, a terrible picture forming in his mind. Arthur hadn't responded to his letters or messengers for _months _after the revolution, and after that he'd just stopped trying. He'd always assumed Arthur had been ignoring him, but with a wound like that… "Is my revolution the reason you've got that mark on your back?" He just had to know. The very idea of it was turning his stomach already.

"…still hurts," Arthur's too quiet, jumbled response preceded only snoring. Alfred was left in the wake, still answerless and tipping into a horrifying new vision of the past.

* * *

**Present Year, July 4****th****, Washington D.C.**

_"You have reached the voice mailbox of—"_

"Come on!" Alfred whined, flopping dramatically back on his bed with his cell still held to his ear. He huffed with annoyance into the receiver, waiting impatiently for the cold, female voice to just let him leave a message already. She continued to give him far too many options before giving way to a migraine inducing beep.

"Dude, you have got to do something about that intro of yours it is _super_ annoying," he griped, switching the phone to his left side as he spoke. His right ear rang painfully with the voicemail tone's echo. "Anyway, I still need to talk to you. It's—it's about Arthur. And I know you said you weren't going to tell me anything, but I think I might have figured some of it out by myself, and I _really _just need to talk to someone about it before it drives me crazy so, Matt, please—"

"_End of message. If you would like to erase this message—"_

_ "_Argh!" Alfred exclaimed in frustration, tossing his phone across the room. It met the opposite wall with a dull thud. He didn't know how many messages he'd tried leaving for his brother today, but all of them had ended the same way. He just wished the Canadian would find his phone and _call him _already!

He lay fuming on his bed for a while, arms crossed on his chest, one foot still anchored to the floor. His eyes were trained on the ceiling, but he wasn't watching anything in particular. He had only his thoughts, wrecking havoc on him as they had been all day, twisting in too many directions to focus on any one thing. He hadn't been able to think straight since the other night.

"This is so stupid," he complained aloud to the empty room, frustrated with his own confusion. He'd wallowed in what-ifs and visions of the past the entire drive home from Matt's house, and he apparently hadn't gotten enough of it yet.

It was just… that utter disaster of a night taking care of Arthur would have been enough to keep him unbalanced for a while by itself. But then he really had shown up to breakfast, exactly like he said he would. Alfred had spent the whole time squirming in his seat, burning with questions he was too afraid to ask. He consoled himself by being annoyed with Arthur's continued reticence, even in the face of all Alfred had done for him the night before, but then… then the jerk had had the gall to _apologize_ for his behavior just as Alfred was leaving.

"_Look, I know I might be… difficult to deal with sometimes, this time of year_," he'd admitted, looking properly contrite, and tired and a thousand other things that just made Alfred want to jump through the car window and take care of him. "_I'm sorry for that. I really don't give you enough credit sometimes, it's only… even after two centuries, there are still some things that I just… Look, I don't deserve it but, please, give me a little more time_." And he'd sounded so sincere and stepped away so sadly that it was Alfred who was left feeling like he'd done something wrong.

He was tired of this. It wasn't like him to just… sit around and stew. He was going to get up, stop being such a wuss, and put an end to the whole thing. Alfred pushed himself to his feet, and stormed over to his fallen phone. It seemed unharmed, though he'd scuffed his wall rather well with his little temper-tantrum. He palmed the device and tapped in England's country code. He got half-way though the actual phone number before he chickened out, slammed on the end key and jammed the thing in his pants-pocket. He couldn't do it. What would he possibly say?

_Hey, Arthur, I know this is something that you obviously have a lot of trouble talking about, but you know that terrible scar you've got? Yeah, I saw it while you were drunk out of your mind the other night. Is there any chance that's my fault? And maybe is that why you seem to hate thinking about the Revolution almost to the point of despising my existence this time every year?_

Yes, that would go over so well.

He was briefly thrown from his reverie by the sound of a distant boom outside. Alfred padded to his window, peering through the blinds to watch as a burst of colorful sparks scattered across the dusky sky. He hadn't realized it had gotten dark enough for fireworks yet. Had he really spent the whole day cooped up in here?

He didn't know what he was doing. He should just forget about the whole mess with Arthur for now, get out there and enjoy himself. This was the one day of the year that was supposed to be entirely about him, and he wasn't used to feeling so conflicted about it. He should go out there with a couple handfuls of sparklers and watch his flashier neighbors set off their expensive displays. Add a beer to the mix, and he'd probably feel a whole lot better about everything within the hour.

In fact, it took him two boxes of multi-colored sparklers and three beers, but by the time the last vestiges of orange light had disappeared from the horizon, he really was feeling a lot better about life in general. He hummed the happy birthday song absently to himself, lying in a lawn chair and watching the fireworks explode across the sky. He might have gone the rest of the night without any problems if his phone hadn't started ringing.

He pulled the noisy device from his pocket, and read his twin's name on the display. His foul mood rushed back as he jammed the answer key and brought the phone to his face.

"Hello—_ow._"He was just buzzed enough to be a little clumsier than usual, and he wound up whacking himself in the temple with the cell. "Hello, Mattie."

"Um. Hi Alfred," Matt sounded atypically annoyed. His tone had that tense, weary quality that it only got when he was nearing the limit of his patience. "Did you know you've left about fifteen voicemails on my phone today?"

"To be honest, I stopped counting after the sixth," he admitted. He reached down to the six pack beside him for another beer, started prying the cap off with his keys. He'd lost his bottle opener at some point last month, and hadn't had time to get a new one yet. "I was more annoyed that _you_ weren't answering the damn thing."

"Well if I'm obviously not answering it, what is the point in leaving a voicemail every time you call, eh? It just makes it take longer for me to call you back." He didn't bother to grace his brother's logic with any kind of response. The cap finally fell off, and he rewarded himself with a large swig. "So why am I calling you, Alfred?" Matt tried again with a long-suffering sigh, apparently realizing trying to reason with the American would do him little good.

"You listened to my messages, right?" Alfred inquired, pushing himself forward and sitting a bit more upright in the chair. He threw his legs over the side, sat with his elbows on his knees.

"They didn't make a whole lot of sense. Something about figuring Arthur out?"

"Helplessly trying, anyway." He corrected, tracking another whistling rocket through the sky until it burst on the horizon in a display of light and color. Even as terrible as he felt, he didn't think he could ever get tired of fireworks.

"What do you mean? And what is that noise? Alfred, are you even—"

"So, did Arthur say anything about the other night, after I left?" He interrupted, tapping his beer bottle mindlessly against his calf.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about, but probably not? To be honest, I try not to discuss you with him on the Fourth."

"Ch—yeah of course not." He grumbled bitterly, washing his anger down with another mouthful of alcohol. "So, you're probably not supposed to know this, but every once in a while Arthur gets _stupid_ drunk and makes me come get him." He'd promised not to tell Matt about the other day in particular, but he hadn't made any promises about exposing Arthur in general.

"Alfred, I'm pretty sure any country who's ever been to a world meeting knows that." Matt's response was a little funnier than it should have been, made Alfred laugh just a little harder, sloshing some of his beer on the bare skin of his leg. This would have to be his last drink tonight if he wanted to remain coherent. He sighed, and set it down on the ground. He knew his limits.

"Right!" he managed to say between chuckles, "So anyway, I usually don't think much of it. Arthur's usually pretty damn annoying the whole time, whining about the revolution and complaining about everything I do… but it was different last time."

"'Last time'?" Matt echoed skeptically, "When was last time?"

"That's not important," Alfred deflected, though he knew it would just make Matt that much more suspicious. "The point is, he was a lot more pathetic and quiet than usual, a lot more down on himself than he was on me, and it sort of made me feel sorry for him…"

"You don't usually feel sorry for him?" The confusion in his voice was readily apparent. "I'd think you'd have to pity him in some respect, since you keep going back to help."

"Look, it's his own damn fault if he decides he wants to drink himself to oblivion, but that doesn't mean I want to _leave_ him there," Alfred tried to reason, not certain himself as to what exactly he was trying to say. "But that's not the point. The point is, it was raining, and we got soaked, and I was just going to let him suffer for a bit, maybe as a reminder not to do it again? But I couldn't. I couldn't leave him, he was being too weird." He trailed off, thinking of the way Arthur had looked: tiny, pathetic, soaked to the bone. He didn't know why, but all his mind would supply him with was another rainstorm, another moment when his heart had been full of nothing but pity for the older nation. Arthur's bayonet at his throat, the shape his body made, small and crumpled on the muddy earth….Alfred's breath caught in his chest, his heart dully aching.

"…Are you still there? Hello?" Matt was growing impatient on the other end of the line.

"Yeah, sorry, what was I saying?" He mumbled, rubbing at his brow. What on earth was _that _about?

"I'm not really sure," the Canadian spoke uncertainly. "Look, it's kind of hard to hear you and you seem like you might have been drinking a little yourself. Are you sure you don't want me to just call back in the morning and—"

"No wait, I think I've got it. Right, so Arthur was being pitiful and so I helped him change into something dry and put him to bed. And I kind of might have seen this awful scar stretching all the way up his back and that's what I wanted to talk to you about, so there." He celebrated the completed thought by picking his beer back up for one more gulp, and setting it back with a little more force than necessary.

"A scar? What scar is that?" Matt's genuine confusion blindsided him. He didn't know why, but he'd just assumed everyone but him had already known about it. Wasn't that how things usually went when it came to Arthur? It always seemed like Alfred was the only one who didn't get it.

"Well, I just—it's a really horrible one. It's all twisted and old and looks like it must have been really painful."

"Okay?" Matt drew out the word, obviously not understanding where he was going with this.

"And I started thinking… well maybe not because I'm sure you'd know about it if… but anyhow, I started thinking that maybe it was from my Revolution?" The line remained silent. He didn't know why he was trying. He'd thought somehow that Matt would have all the answers—the way his twin had been talking a couple days ago, he certainly made it sound like he knew more about Arthur than he did.

"Well, it would make sense wouldn't it?" He finally answered, surprising Alfred with his quiet affirmation.

"Why is that, exactly? I don't remember doing anything that would—"

"Alfred, surely you've realized that, even if it's not that particular scar, you left a mark on him somewhere when you fought him," Matt chided, bristling with exasperation. "And I'd be liable to believe it must be a pretty terrible one since I seem to remember him being unable to travel for months after your fight."

"He _what_?" Alfred felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. Back then, he'd beaten Arthur because he'd had to. He'd seen it as the only way forward, the only way to do anything right in the future. He'd never once thought it would really hurt Arthur. Not like that. Sure he'd known it wouldn't be _pleasant _to fight a revolution, but he hadn't thought…

"You… didn't know about that did you." Matt's nervous words rushed out too quickly. They ran together, making him difficult to decipher. "I knew I shouldn't have called you about this, Arthur'll kill me if I say anything stupid. I should just—"

"Wait, please," Alfred begged, "It's not like I'm going to use this information against him, I just want to know what I did to him. I just want to understand what happened, while I wasn't there. Is that really such a crime?" Even through the phone, his twin's indecision was nearly palpable.

"I guess not," he finally gave in. "Look, it's not like I even remember that much, but… Arthur came to visit me, maybe a year after your fight was over. And he just looked… awful. Like he hadn't slept." Alfred hung on every word, trying to imagine a frazzled Arthur. It was far too easy to picture. "I remember waiting for him to get off the boat. I almost didn't see him because he was so muted, compared to how he normally was. He practically tripped down the boarding ramp, marched over to me, and without saying a word, he just picked me up and hugged me."

"Ha! Affection in public? From that old man?" Alfred groused, trying to ignore the sting of envy blossoming within his chest. Arthur would never have pulled such a stunt with him, not with all those people milling around the port.

"Yes, exactly! He was that upset, Alfred. He was so… he held me, and I think he said something like 'You can't leave me too.' And I just got so jealous of you because I knew you were the one he really wanted."

"Whoa, what?" Alfred blinked, picking up on the bitterness in Matt's tone. His brother sighed softly, the sound of him keeping his anger bottled deep beneath the surface.

"It doesn't matter." He brushed his feelings away so easily. Alfred wondered what that kind of control was like. He didn't think it was healthy. "What matters is: Arthur stayed with me that time for almost half a year, way more than he'd ever stayed before. And the whole time, I could tell he still wasn't over you. He was visibly broken up about it—every little thing seemed to remind him of you and it nearly drove me crazy to see him like that and I—" Another breath of air, another emotion pressed down deep. Alfred wasn't certain how he'd managed to miss this all these years. "All those times you tried to convince me to rebel against England, didn't you wonder why I never accepted?"

"I figured you were just being stubborn," Alfred remarked. His insides were twisting up in knots with every word Matt said.

"Partly," the Canadian laughed mirthlessly. "Mostly it was because I never wanted to see him look that way again." Alfred sat still, trying to process everything his brother was saying and reconcile it with his understanding of the past. He'd sent so many letters to England right after the war, begging for forgiveness or recognition or some kind of something. He wondered now if Arthur had even got them. It sounded like he'd been bedridden, and then visiting Matt.

He'd always sort of thought that, once everything was said and done, Arthur had just started seeing him as nothing but a mistake. The Englishman had certainly played it cool and detached enough—he'd started thinking that maybe Arthur had felt the same way all along—that Arthur had never actually cared about him except as a margin of profit. Arthur made it easy to believe that… but if he'd been as torn up about it as Matt said…

"I don't know, Alfred." Matt broke the silence, words rushing out on the wings of a tired exhale. "I probably shouldn't have said anything. It's not like there's any point to knowing this now."

"No, I—I really appreciate it." Alfred stuttered, bringing one hand up to cradle his brow. He hadn't heard the booming of a firework for a while. He wondered, distantly, how late it was. "It's nice to know he actually cared that much. Although, now I kind of wish I could find some way to make it up to him."

"What, like, your Revolution? You're not saying you wish you'd never—"

"No," he stopped Matt's incredulous line of thought before it could finish. He didn't regret the Revolution altogether. He'd known it to be necessary then, and he still believed that, if for different reasons. His people needed to be free, and he knew it now as he knew it then. It was just… "but I didn't exactly make it easy for him, you know? There were a lot of things I could have done differently." Too many things. Too many angry letters, and snubbed invitations, and minor conflicts at sea and fights for attention.

"Yeah, but it's not like you can just walk up to him and say '_hey, I've realized I may have been kind of shitty to you over the past two hundred years,' _eh? He'd probably think you were making fun of him."

"Probably," Alfred laughed back, some of his good humor returning to him. He picked his beer back up and downed another sip. "Still though, would have been nice if I could have figured all of this out sooner."

"I'm not sure why you didn't, honestly. It was pretty much obvious to everyone else," Matt teased. Alfred stuck his tongue out in response, forgetting his twin would be unable to see it. "Still, don't think too much about it. It's all over and done with. There's nothing you can do about the past."

"Yeah, I guess," he agreed, sighing into the receiver one last time.

"Talk to you later, eh? And Happy birthday."

"Thanks. See ya." He hit the end button and jammed the phone back in his pocket, laying back in his chair to gaze at the stars. He supposed Matt was right. It wasn't like knowing any of this would change anything. He and Arthur would go on dancing around each other for years to come, just as they always had.

"Nothing you can do about the past," he repeated to himself, eyes tracing a falling star, or maybe an airplane or satellite, through the sky. He hugged his drink to his chest, wondering if he should go inside. Nah, it was warm enough. And even though he knew he'd be annoyed with the coating of dew in the morning, the idea of sleeping outside was appealing to him just then. He didn't feel like moving much. He closed his eyes, focused on the distant sound of children throwing firecrackers against the concrete….

And had a terrible idea.

He sprang to his feet, nearly tipping the lawn chair over on top of himself in the process. Matt and the rest of the world may live in their comfortable, mundane worlds, but didn't he know differently? Didn't he know firsthand that there were things that could cross dimensions, hop through time like it was nothing?

He fumbled for his phone, rushing back to his house to make arrangements.

Maybe it was time to give Roswell a visit.


End file.
